Queen of Bones

by Teresa Dovalpage

  Padrino took his goddaughter out of the room and insisted on driving her home. Rosita was silent.

  “Are you okay, mija?” Padrino asked several times.

  She just stared at the streets and said nothing.

  “The orishas work in strange ways,” she mumbled at last. “When I was getting interested in someone else, Oyá sent Juan to me, as she had promised. But now he’s dead.”

  “So that guy was—”

  “The man I thought was my ‘one and only’ for twenty years. Funny that this happened right after I realized there’s no such thing as a ‘one and only.’ Sort of tragic, you know?”

  She didn’t speak again until Padrino stopped in front of her house.

  Her living and dining room were one large combined space inhabited by a green vinyl sofa with yellow patches, an oak table with three chairs that didn’t match, a 1957 blue Frigidaire and a black-and-white Russian TV that didn’t work. The kitchen was small, fully occupied by an iron stove and a collection of greasy pots on a cement counter. Ten steps led to the bedroom upstairs, a barbacoa.

  A red ceramic bowl behind the door was a sign of respect to the orisha Elegguá. On a round glass table were statuettes of the Virgin of Charity and the Virgin of Regla. A framed print of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux represented Oyá. Marigolds, bananas, roses, oranges and peacock feathers were scattered around them. A copy of El Monte lay on the table.

  Rosita sank down onto the sofa, staring straight ahead. Padrino went over to the kitchen and boiled water for chamomile tea. When he presented Rosita with a full glass, she took a sip of the sweet-smelling liquid and said, “I’m not even that sad. Can you believe it? I’m in shock but not sad.” She leaned her head back. “Juan still loved Elsa, Padrino. He didn’t come back for me. He came back for her.”

  Padrino sat next to his goddaughter. “Mija, tell me about Elsa. Have you known her a long time?”

  “I never told you? I stole Juan from her. Well, not exactly, but I tried.”

  She told Padrino the story of her affair with Juan, most of which Padrino already knew. And then she got to their run-in at the cemetery.

  “After I told him what I’d done, he stormed off,” she said. “He was so mad at me! I’m sure he went looking for her right away.”

  She was right on that front, Padrino thought.

  “Do you think,” he asked, “she had any reason to kill him?”

  Rosita shook her head, surprised.

  “Why, Padrino? No, I believe he committed suicide, like he wrote in his note. He probably tried to win her back and got rejected, so he went and shot himself.”

  “He was that crazy about her?”

  “Yes. I saw it in his eyes. He loved her as much as I loved him all those years.”

  Padrino cleared his throat. He was hesitant to bring up Víctor, given her state. But it had to be done at some point.

  “Do you happen to know a Victoria Sunrise?” he asked. “Her real name was Víctor.”

  She looked at him, startled. “Yes, she’s a friend. Why?”

  “Was he—she friends with Juan too?”

  “They were close in college. Some people said they were more than friends. I wondered about it too, but then Juan showed me that he was a real man. Why?”

  “Did Elsa know Víctor? I mean Victoria.”

  She had perked up. “We all took theater classes together, so I imagine she did. Yes, she must have, especially since she was dating Juan. Why do you ask?”

  He didn’t answer her question. “When was the last time you saw Victoria?”

  “Last month, when she hired me to do makeup for a few performers at Café Arabia. But what does she have to do with anything?”

  “She was killed three days ago.”

  Rosita gasped. “What? Ay, no! Who did it?”

  “I’m trying to figure that out.”

  She grabbed Padrino’s hand so hard that it hurt.

  “First Victoria, then Juan,” she whispered. “It’s weird.”

  “Do you know of anybody who might have wanted to harm Victoria?”

  She began to rock herself on the sofa, her eyes closed.

  “After I dropped out of college, we didn’t see each other for several years. One day, I went to Café Arabia to ask if they wanted a stylist for their shows. The woman I talked to turned out to be Víctor. I wouldn’t have recognized him. She insisted I call her Victoria and always wanted to have ‘girl talks’ with me. Poor Victoria. Poor Juan. This is a crazy world, isn’t it?”

  Padrino waited a few seconds before asking, “Is it possible that Elsa . . . could have killed Victoria?”

  “No, Padrino, I don’t think so.” Rosita opened her eyes and looked at him with a baffled expression. “Elsa has everything—she has no reason to kill anyone. In all honesty, I hate that woman, but I can’t imagine her doing that.”

  Padrino didn’t press the issue. When Rosita complained of a headache, he suggested she take a nap.

  “I need to go back to the office.” She rubbed her eyes. “I had just arranged with the Pathology Department to deliver a body when I found out—”

  “At least lie down for a bit. I’ll give you a ride to the cemetery afterward.”

  “I appreciate it. The last thing I want is to get on a crowded bus today.”

  Rosita slowly climbed the wooden steps that led to the barbacoa. She slept in a single bed covered in a lacy pink bedspread. The nightstand was painted pink as well. On top of it was a heavy chain with an even heavier medal of Babalú Ayé. She buried her head in her pillow and sobbed for a while. A black cat jumped onto the bed, and she started scratching his ears.

  “Elegguá, you’re going to like those ‘rice with everything’ leftovers that I forgot to give you last night,” she whispered.

  The cat purred contentedly and curled up next to her.

  Half an hour later, Padrino brought her more chamomile tea. He said a prayer with his hand on his goddaughter’s forehead. When it was over, she smiled.

  “I’m feeling better,” she said.

  “The orishas always help.”

  She handed him the medal. “That’s for you, Padrino. A client gave it to me as part of her payment. It’s her husband I’m taking care of today.”

  “Thanks.”

  He put it on. The medal knocked against his Santería necklaces, and its chain was so bulky that it hurt his neck. But he didn’t want to offend Rosita, so he kept it.

  She looked at her watch.

  “It’s getting late, Padrino. I need to start working on that poor guy. I also want to be available if they ask me for help with Juan.”

  “Ay, mija.”

  “It’s the least I can do. To close a chapter in my life, you know? In a way, his death has freed me.”

  After dropping off Rosita at the cemetery main gate, Padrino called Marlene Martínez, but was told that she was at a meeting with La Seguridad, which could take hours, for all he knew.

  He remembered Gabriela’s advice not to mess with Elsa but dismissed it. He was sure now that she had killed Juan and suspected she also had something to do with Víctor’s death. If he could solve the case by himself, it would make things so much easier for Pepito! Besides, he didn’t want to waste Marlene’s time. And who was afraid of Elsa’s connection with Raúl Castro? Carajo, not him! He drove back to El Vedado.

  Much later, Padrino would say that his second mistake had been ignoring his wife’s words.

  5

  The Sacrifices We Make for Our Children

  Elsa got back home at five-thirty in the afternoon. She was wearing the same clothes she had put on early that morning, the brown sweat suit and Nike tennis shoes. Far from her usual executive-chic style, but the Lord—or el diablo—knew she had been too preoccupied to worry about looking fashionable.

  She drove the
car into the garage and went outside and across the porch to the main door. The garage had been built after Emilio had bought the house. She’d been meaning to add another entrance that connected the garage to the kitchen. Would she have the chance to do that or any of the other renovations she’d been planning recently? Would life be the same after this, or would someone discover the horrible things she’d done?

  Her mind flashed back to the man who had called her, wanting to talk about Vic’s death. She hadn’t thought of him since. But he’d said he wasn’t a cop and had probably been telling the truth. The Cuban police didn’t call you politely in advance to find out what you knew about a case. They showed up at your house and arrested you.

  She unlocked the door. The first thing she noticed was that the security system, which she had never trusted—why had they ever chosen to have it installed by a Cuban electrician?—was off. Had she left it like that? Every day before going to the office, she made sure to turn on the alarm. But she’d left in such a hurry that morning that she could easily have overlooked the detail.

  She went back to the garage and retrieved the gun. She had considered disposing of it, but had decided to keep it just in case. She also took out her cell phone and thought of calling the nearest Unidad, but changed her mind about that as well. Given the circumstances, inviting the police for a visit wasn’t a wise idea. She went into the house, gun ready in a lightly trembling hand.

  The living room looked the same as usual. The TV was in its proper place, and nothing seemed to have been touched or moved. She walked carefully from the living room to the kitchen and found everything as she had left it. She went into the master bedroom, still tense. She saw the naked mattress—she had to replace the sheets. The former contents of the duffel bag remained on the floor where she had scattered them when she’d emptied it.

  She inspected the closet. Her clothes, perfumes, shoes and purses were all there. The Rolex that Emilio had bought her for their fifteenth wedding anniversary was gleaming in its box. Even her diamond rings were there. Nobody had been in the house. She had forgotten to turn on the alarm, and that was that.

  More confident now, she walked to what had been her son’s bedroom when he was growing up. It looked as it had in the months since he’d left, from the photos of Industriales baseball players to his old DVD collection and the small TV.

  She entered her home office. Her computer, a Dell laptop, didn’t appear to have been touched, but her mouse, which was always on the left side, had been moved to the right and placed too close to the keyboard.

  If the alarm hadn’t been off, she doubted she would have paid much attention to this. But she knew now that someone had been there. What if that shadow she thought she’d seen that morning hadn’t been her imagination? What if that guy who had called her about Vic’s death had shown up? Or sent someone to watch her? Had they broken into her house? She needed to move fast.

  She called Iberia Airlines and asked for a ticket to Seville that night.

  “I have an emergency at home,” she told the office clerk, who knew her. “My husband is sick and needs me to be there as soon as I can.”

  “I’m sorry, Señora Elsa. Let me see what I can do. No, there are no more flights departing today. They all leave tomorrow afternoon.”

  “What time?”

  “There’s one for Madrid leaving at two p.m. That’s the best we can do. And it will have to be first class.”

  “Of course.”

  “What date will the return ticket be for?”

  Elsa massaged the back of her neck. “Let’s make it just one way for now.”

  After buying the ticket, she hung up, went back to her bedroom, took a Louis Vuitton suitcase out of the closet and started filling it with her favorite pieces of clothing. In her handbag she placed the Rolex, her jewelry and her Spanish and Cuban passports. She returned to the office, turned on the computer and logged into her Gmail account. The e-ticket was already there.

  She was getting ready to print it when the doorbell made her jump. She retrieved the handgun and placed it in the right back pocket of her sweat suit. She looked through the peephole and saw a man dressed in white with Santería beads and a big round medal around his neck. This seemed like the guy who had stopped by the office asking for her, based on her secretary’s description. A mulatto santero. What did he want, and how the hell had he gotten her address? Ah, las chismosas, those gossips who worked for her! She would fire them both as soon as she got to Seville.

  Then she glanced at the coatrack. Her coat was still there, but what about her red umbrella? The one she had taken when she’d gone to see Vic. It was gone. Or maybe she’d put it somewhere else. Where, carajo? She should’ve gotten rid of it before. But she didn’t think like a killer. Because she wasn’t one! At least, she hadn’t been then . . . It had all been just an accident. God, or the orishas if they existed, knew that.

  The doorbell rang again. She hesitated, but finally opened the door. “Yes, who are you?”

  The question came out ruder than Elsa had intended, but she didn’t attempt to soften it with even the hint of a smile.

  “I’m the one who called and spoke with you earlier,” the man said. “My name is Leonel Fábregas, but most of my friends and colleagues know me as Padrino. I just want to talk to you for a few minutes.”

  Elsa sized him up. She saw a tired older man who, judging by his attire, wasn’t well off. Not the kind of person she would usually welcome into her house, but he possessed a certain self-assuredness and remotely military air that reminded her of her father and made her say, “Okay, you can come in for a couple minutes. But I don’t have a lot of time. I’m leaving on a trip tomorrow.”

  She silently cursed herself for mentioning her plans. Damn if she didn’t have reason to be nervous, but she needed to watch what she said.

  The guy didn’t look around the living room like most visitors, nor did he show any signs of being impressed by its luxury. In fact, he moved with the aplomb of someone who had been there before. She stared at him, a slow sense of rage building.

  “I’m investigating Víctor Pérez Díaz’s death, as I told you on the phone yesterday,” he said.

  “And I told you I hadn’t seen her in ages,” she replied. “So why are you here?”

  “Because I’m now concerned about Juan Chiong’s death as well. And I’m working with the police on it.”

  “You said you weren’t affiliated with them earlier.”

  “I am now. Lieutenant Marlene Martínez, who’s handling Víctor Pérez’s case, brought me in after his friend was found dead.”

  Marlene Martínez. Juan had mentioned that name—the big-assed officer. Elsa remembered because the thought of Juan admiring another woman’s butt had made her jealous. The santero wasn’t bluffing.

  “Juan Chiong entered this house yesterday afternoon and didn’t come out,” he said matter-of-factly. “You left today at four a.m. in your car. This morning, his body was discovered in El Quijote Park. I thought you might like to tell me something about this before I report my findings to Lieutenant Martínez.”

  Elsa let her features melt into calm. “Please, have a seat. I can explain everything. I don’t want you getting the wrong idea about me.”

  She sat down on the sofa.

  “I have nothing to hide,” she went on. “Juan Chiong and I have a long history. We met in college. We were sweethearts, but he cheated on me.” She paused for effect and added, “He ended up leaving without me for America with a friend of his and Víctor’s.”

  She looked straight at the man, knowing she had him. The look in his eyes told her that he was absorbed in her story. That attentiveness made people vulnerable. She had captured her audience, the thing her old ISA instructors had always said she was so bad at doing. She didn’t waste a second. Sporting a winning smile, she took the handgun from her pocket and shot him in the center of h
is chest. It was at such short range she didn’t even need to aim. He fell as a red stain spread slowly over his white shirt, the beads of his broken Santería necklace lying scattered on the floor.

  Hands on the wheel of her Lexus, Elsa drove through scarce traffic. In the back seat, Padrino’s body lay wrapped in three sheets.

  Would this nightmare ever end? How many more lives would a single lie, one she had told to protect her son, cost? She glanced behind her, fearing she had heard a soft sigh.

  No, the man was dead. She’d checked for a pulse before dragging him to the car. It had been eight o’clock when she’d loaded his body into the Lexus. Had the neighbors noticed? She should’ve waited until it was darker out, but had been too scared to keep him in the house.

  Elsa wondered if she’d been too impulsive. As usual. Even if the guy had told others what he’d seen, what concrete proof did he have? But he knew that officer, Martínez! He was working with the police, maybe even with La Seguridad. The revelations he could have made were more dangerous than what Juan could have revealed. Juan could have jeopardized her finances, but the santero could have had her sent to jail or, worse, the paredón, the firing squad the Cuban government didn’t shy away from using.

  Where to dispose of him . . . Leaving Juan’s body in El Quijote Park had clearly been a mistake. She should’ve found a more distant, isolated place. But she reminded herself she wasn’t a professional criminal, even if she was starting to feel like one.

  She would be more careful this time. She thought of El Bosque de la Habana, a green area on the banks of the Almendares River. To the south of the Almendares Park, it wasn’t really a forest, but looked like one with its magueys and hundred-year-old ceiba trees, huge vines hanging from them, lush tropical vegetation everywhere and the Almendares River meandering through. During the day, tourists arrived in their almendrones to take pictures of the river and walk around—she had once taken a couple of Spaniards who’d wanted to get lost in a “Cuban jungle” there—and santeros often used the area for ceremonies. But after dark, it was deserted.